River Of Lead
by Cuppa Char
Summary: There's no rational order to it. It starts out as post-trauma dreams. Then the sleep deprivation which is swiftly followed by the waking dreams-slash-hallucinations and the occasional nightmare when he's exhausted enough to fall asleep. Only it's at this stage that he feels the burning, sees the flames, and ends up smelling like burnt corpses.
1. Chapter 1

(part of fic dump 'cause I've been neglecting )

_River of Lead_

_There's no rational order to it._

_It's like organised chaos, much like how his brain works._

_It starts out as post-trauma dreams._

_Then the sleep deprivation which is swiftly followed by the waking dreams-slash-hallucinations and the occasional nightmare when he's exhausted enough to fall asleep. Only it's at this stage that he feels the burning, sees the flames, and ends up smelling like burnt corpses._

A/N: Title from Aaron Sprinkles 'River of Lead'.

My attempt at going down the 3b 'lose your mind' theme. General spoilers for 3a and 3x12 Lunar Ellipse. Stiles post-reflective-Derek leaving flashback was actually a re-edited version of a drabble I did on my tumblr (that was a response to Lissie's 'I Bet On You'.) Just tweaked slightly.

Part 2 of Runaway Series

Partly inspired by the video for Dokken's 'Dream Warrior' (Nightmare On Elm Street 3). Just picture

T/warning: Panic attacks are pretty much a given, and at times, pretty horrific. Night terrors and nightmares, basically in line with 3b, and some 'imagery' that might be triggering.

_Chapter 1: sleep tight, memories_

Sleep tight

Memories

We've all got to turn in sometimes

Fall back

Take a seat

'Cause we never got past the headlines

And who could ever understand

The obligation that was forcing my hand

Another chance for grace to win

As I give in

Down this river of lead I roam

Feeling it move beneath

If the fire don't kill me the water will

Feeling it pull me underneath

Lay me down to sleep

I pray there's something left to keep'

* * *

There's no rational order to it.

It's like organised chaos, much like how his brain works.

It starts out as post-trauma dreams.

Then the sleep deprivation which is swiftly followed by the waking dreams-slash-hallucinations and the occasional nightmare when he's exhausted enough to fall asleep. Only it's at this stage that he feels the burning, sees the flames, and ends up smelling like burnt corpses.

After Jennifer, the root cellar, and the Nementon becoming a beacon again, Stiles dreams.

He dreams of what ifs and what could be's.

He dreams that he's too late getting to the others, that the dirt and soil and wood all fall around them and everyone dies. Sometimes he's not too late, but the bat doesn't withstand the pressure, and he ends up crushed, dying with the others, within the bone-breaking and suffocating darkness.

He dreams that he drowns in a metal bath-tub at Deaton's clinic.

Sometimes he never gets back from the white room.

Other times he's lost amongst the trees. Watching and re-watching the past over and over again.

They're just dreams and he wakes up.

Until they're not and he can't.

Because eventually everyone will start to realise that these dreams are something more… much like Stiles himself.

* * *

Stiles doesn't remember falling asleep but he finds himself waking in a room that doesn't look familiar. A bed that's too big. Or a body that was too small. Stiles doesn't feel himself either way.

He rolls on to his side and sees the moon glowing brightly within the clear sky. It calms him and he sighs with it.

He hears noises from somewhere below. Unfamiliar and yet, between the ugly tones and loud banging, there's a familiarity to it that Stiles has never known.

When he rolls back he can see the door to the room is slightly ajar, warm glowing light from the hallway leaving dancing shadows across the wall, a few dust particles fluttering in his line of vision. A loud scream followed by a chorus of snarls and a few howls.

Stiles feels the flinch within him but doesn't so as much see it on his body.

"Dad?" a voice that's not his own calls out quietly. It's younger than he is. A child.

The noises instantly stop and wariness creeps up within him.

Then hushed whispers. A soft voice that sounds like it's pleading. Begging quietly. A loud raucous laughter. Feminine but obnoxious.

He climbs out of bed and small feet carry him across a wooden floor.

He manages to slip through the open gap of the door.

There's a name on it but it's blurry and out of focus so he can't make the word out.

He tries to call out again. He takes a breath but then there's something there in his throat. Thick and clogging and he suddenly can't breathe. The floor disappears from beneath him… or at least there's a sense of falling, because he's suddenly not in a hallway that he was never familiar with.

Instead there's the abrupt arrival of fire and screams. Thick flames lick up and around, burning him, and he comes to the sudden realisation that he is about to die. It's so fast and so left-field he doesn't get a chance to process anything. Like regret. Like's he's too young to die. Like how it would affect his dad. Because he was walking across hard wooden floors and now he's fucking burning to death.

That's not the worst thing though.

It was the screams.

* * *

Stiles comes to suddenly, jack-knifing up abruptly, mouth parted open in a silent scream. He blinks rapidly when he realises that this time he's brought something back with him. Thick, terrifying flames cover the walls, occasionally trying to flick out and lick at his body that was still trapped in a tangle of sheets. The sound of the fire roars loudly throughout the room, louder and wilder than any feral wolf could be.

He tries to scream again but nothing comes out and all he achieves is the feeling of thick, clogging smoke restricting his breathing and leaving him choking against it, despite the fact there's not a trace of anything except the angry red and orange flames that dance around him.

His door suddenly opens and Stiles tears his eyes away from the flames as his dad appears and wades through the flames as though they were never there.

_Oh_.

His dad stops just short of stepping fully out of its reach and it's all over him now, dancing up down his body, engulfing him. Stiles watches, fear and terror keeping him rooted to the bed, as his skin blisters and peels away.

His dad's lips move, Stiles not hearing anything except the roar and loud crackles of the flame, revealing stringy strips of muscle and exposed teeth.

Stiles screams some more, or at least he's pretty sure he did, and then some more when hands suddenly reach for him and shake him a little. His dad's face appears in front of him and Stiles watches it in reverse. Strips of muscle and skin fall back into place. Teeth, and jaws and bones get covered and Stiles can see the lips moving urgently within the loudness.

_Wake up. Wake up. It's just a dream, Stiles. WAKE UP! _

"- Up. It's okay, Stiles. You're okay," his dad's voice cuts in and the roaring has gone. Somehow the sheets have gone and he's been moved so that he's half leaning on his dad and half over the side of the bed. There's the distinct image of vomit – most of it splattered in a small pile on the floor but some, he realises with a grimace, had splashed across the bottom of his dad's pant legs. "You're awake now."

"Sorry," Stiles mutters shakily against him.

"It's okay," his dad murmurs next to him, running a cool hand against his forehead. "You're okay, but you do feel a little warm."

"I'm okay," Stiles croaks, instantly hating the way his voice betrays him. "It was just a bad dream."

"I've seen your bad dreams – if that's what you're calling them," his dad says, frowning at him. "That was the worst I've seen them. It was almost like a night terror."

"Yeah, I suppose it was a bit…" Stiles agrees with a shrug.

"Have you had it like that before?" his dad nudges him when Stiles drifts along for too long.

Stiles shakes his head, pointedly ignoring the fact that he had indeed had some weird ass waking dreams in Finstock's class and seemingly pointless images flickering between the Nementon, silent signing, doors and freaky shadowy images that leave him screaming himself silly.

"What about Scott and Allison?"

"They've had a few moments too."

"Like you?"

"I guess," Stiles gives a non-committal answer. In fact, apart from Scott's wig-out on the Lacrosse field and Allison's two – that she has recounted so far – both of them seemed to be fairing much better than he was. Maybe it was because Scott was now a freaking true alpha and, well to be honest, Allison had always been a little rough around the edges. She was an _Argent_ after all.

"Maybe you need to talk to someone?" his dad ventures thoughtfully.

"Seriously?" he snorts. "Like who? You got someone in mind. Maybe you have a secret supernatural unit attached to the department that I don't know about?"

"Stiles…"

"Seriously dad," Stiles rolls his eyes, sitting up straighter. "The last person I spoke to about how I was feeling turned out to be semi-evil, so I'll think I just stick to my own peeps in the future. Besides, Deaton said we could talk to him if we needed to. Scott already has."

"And what about you?" his dad asks, giving his shoulder a nudge again.

"Deaton said this would be with us for the rest of our lives," Stiles says with a shrug. "I hoped it wouldn't be a big part. I've just been trying to ignore it, I guess."

"And how's that been working for ya, kid?" his dad asks with a raised eyebrow.

Stiles shrugs again and offers his dad a sheepish and watery grin.

"You can always talk to me. "

"I know," Stiles instantly says. His dad raises his eyebrow even further, expectantly. "Just… not right now? I will talk to you. It's just I'm tired and icky and I feel and smell like vomit right now."

"Yes and yes," his dad agrees wrinkling his nose. "And you've also not been sleeping as much as you should be."

"I think the waking up screaming part showed that I was in fact asleep," Stiles objects with a poorly executed flail of the arm.

"Falling asleep from exhaustion is not the same thing. Sleep deprivation can cause a lot of things you know," his dad frowns at him, planting a wide palm across the top of his head and tilting it so he could scrutinise the obvious greyness under his eyes. "When you do talk to me I want you to tell me the truth. Now that everything is out in the open there's no excuses." Stiles inwardly snorts when he re-edits it what he hears in his head and comes away with _'now that the werewolf's out of the bag'._ "But it does mean you have to start being honest with yourself."

Stiles huffs a heavy breath out and nods, gingerly moving away from the fresh vomit.

"You should go to bed," Stiles announces and waves down to the floor. "I'll clear that up."

"No," his dad argues at him and shoves him gently upwards. "You're going to have a shower and I'll clean that up. Then you're going to bed."

Stiles tries to protest but his dad herds him out of his room with a fresh set of pj's and the softest towel he's ever had the grace to touch. By the time he's back, freshly warmed, smelling the nicer side of vomit, the floor is scrubbed clean and the bed-sheets have been changed. His dad ends up tucking him into bed which is both nice and totally mortifying.

His dad insists on staying until he's sure Stiles is asleep, so he does what he does best and feigns it until his dad yawns loudly and makes his way back to his own room.

Stiles opens his eyes and vows never to sleep again.

Instead he thinks back to the day after they'd pulled everyone out of the root cellar. When Scott had turned up after mysteriously disappearing on him and taking an even more mysterious phone call which he vehemently refused to tell him about. When he re-appeared he'd told him, head still tender and bruised, stitches pulling across his temple, that Derek and Cora had left.

It left him reeling more than any head-wound could.

* * *

_Stiles is pissed. In fact he's more than pissed. He's downright outraged. _

_Derek's gone. With Cora. And he's fucking mad, okay? He's just gone. Like none of it mattered. Not one fucking bit. And he knows it's not Cora's fault. She just wanted a better life. A new start. And she's Derek's sister. Of course he wanted those things for her as well. And him. A new start. A new beginning. But he's still pissed at her. Because this was their hearts that they played with. His. Scott's. Even Isaac's. He saw how Isaac's face had changed when he heard they had left and although Scott was denying it, he looked bummed too. _

_Stiles had taken a chance with them. How many times had he saved Derek's life? Cora's? How many times did he have to lay his life down? He feels fucking ashamed, now, that he'd actually cried in front of Derek (he'd thought they'd been at that stage of their little fucked up lives, that tears and grief and small gestures of comfort meant something) because it was all for show. _

_He can't help but think that they're little bitches for this. Fucking cowards. It's not like he can just up and leave like that. He has commitments. He has family. And he's glad for that. That his dad and Mrs McCall and Scott are alive. And Lydia - despite the google-eyes for Aidan - because whatever they're going to become, it's going to be something. _

_He shouldn't deny their happiness or the fact that Cora gave Derek a reason to leave. Derek's had a lifetime of shit and he actually has something to live for. To fight for. But they shouldn't have to do that. To fight. Cora should be able to grow up anew, get her own life, and have her own family. And Derek will get to watch and maybe get his own too. He's still young. He's still got a chance. _

_Stiles thinks, a little meanly, that she'll probably leave him. And because he's still bitter about everything he thinks 'I hope she leaves you, like you did us…' _

_(he doesn't mean it) _

* * *

His dad keeps him off school for a few days until he's sure that he's not running a fever. Although it's pretty apparent straight away that the hot flush to his skin had been a residue of the hot flames that danced across his skin but due to the fact Stiles refused to talk about what he'd dreamed about, and his dad was none the wiser, he just went along with it.

By the third day though his dad was satisfied enough and insisted on driving him to school. Stiles jeep was still on the drive, unused and un-drivable, on the account that they were still a little short on the money to get it fixed, and Stiles wasn't really in the mood for the bus. Or people in general.

"Call me if you don't feel up for it," his dad says.

Stiles nods and fishes his rucksack out of the back and swings it up over his shoulders.

"Will do, daddio…" Stiles announces with a small wave. It's obvious that his dad's not going to leave until Stiles makes the first move so he turns on his heel and marches determinedly towards the door until he hears the familiar rumble of the cruiser pulling away.

He feels the tension building, the itchiness that he's grown accustomed to, and the irritability that, of late, is always there. He doesn't feel particularly sociable today and would like nothing better than to shut the entire fucking world out. He makes do with sticking his earphones in and flipping his hood up instead, tightening both hands around the straps on his shoulders.

He makes it halfway down the hall, just a few feet away from his locker, when something big and a little heavy slams down onto his shoulder. Stiles yelps and whirls, half-expecting something big and dangerous and ready to eat his face. Instead Isaac is there, hands up and placating.

"Whoa," Isaac says, eyes wide, mouth quirking amusedly. "You're a little jumpy."

Stiles can't actually hear most of what Isaac says thanks, mostly, to the fact that he'd cranked up the volume of his IPod. He plucks a bud out of one ear.

"I've been calling you for ages," Isaac says, winkling his nose. He makes no show at hiding the fact that he sniffs around Stiles for a few seconds. Stiles rolls his eyes and turns his back, heading the last few feet to his locker. "Couldn't you hear me?"

"Earphones," Stiles says, plucking his remaining ear-bud out.

"You look like shit."

"Thanks," Stiles mutters, coming up blank with a witty reply. Isaac seems to wait, expecting something from him. Stiles ignores him and turns his back again, shoving books randomly in. He has no time for Isaac today… well he doesn't at the best of times, but today – along with his building irritation and sudden, surprising head-ache, he's about a nano-second away from yelling in the werewolf's face. Isaac had been tolerable when Derek and the pack had been around, if not mildly annoying and obnoxious, but now Derek was gone, and Boyd and Erica were both dead, Isaac was spending more time with Scott. It was clear that there was something weird going on between Allison too but as Scott was now the only alpha he knew there was more Scott and Isaac time then there was Scott and Stiles time. Although, despite the fact he wanted to yell at him and tell the best-friend stealer to _go fuck himself in mistletoe_ he was also somewhat relieved. It meant there was more time not to pretend that he was okay. He didn't have to smile and give half-hearted thumbs up and be someone's 'rock'. And Lydia? Well… she was off having sexytimes with one half of the block-head twins.

"So, are you coming tonight?"

"Tonight?" Stiles asks distractedly, as he rummages further in his locker.

"The pack-meet?" Isaac says and rolls his eyes as though it was the most obvious thing. "Scott's probably going to mention it to you in class. He said he tried to call you a few times."

Stiles ignores him further.

"It's just Derek wanted to make sure everyone was coming."

"Dere- what?" Stiles asks, abandoning the contents of the locker and snapping around.

"Shit… you didn't know?" Isaac blanches and then shakes his head in confusion. "I thought you knew."

"When?"

"Yesterday evening," Isaac shrugs. "He only just got back if that helps."

It doesn't because now he realises he's last to know. He ends up stalking off to his next class.

* * *

"I called him."

"Derek Hale?" Stiles hisses at Scott. "Of all the people you call, you call Derek?"

"Who else would I have called?"

"Why did you have to call anyone?"

"C'mon Stiles. Look around. We've opened a can of worms. I might be an alpha now but I have no clue what I'm doing."

"You're comparing this to a can of worms?"

"What do you want me to call it?"

Stiles shrugs and dumps his bag down at his desk.

"What about Deaton?"

"Deaton suggested I call him."

"Why?"

"I thought I just said why."

"That was the PG version," Stiles huffs, sitting down and looking at Scott with questionable eyes. "I want the real reason."

"If it happened to have escaped your notice, something weird is going on. Something that I don't think I have any control over. Or even any idea what it is," Scott sighs, sitting next to him. He turns worried eyes towards him. "And you're doing weird shit, man. I'm worried about you."

"Oh. My. God," Stiles turns a horrified look towards his friend. "You called him because of me, didn't you? What the hell did you tell him?" he shakes his head and hardens his eyes in accusation. "And I'm offended that you think I'm losing my mind. Thanks, man. Way to go."

"It's not like that…" Scott tries to plant a calming hand on his shoulder but Stiles shakes it off roughly.

"I'm not writing things backwards," Stiles mutters.

"Yet," Scott huffs under his breath and Stiles isn't entirely sure if Scott is joking or not but Stiles musters enough energy to quirk his lips, only thinking a little belatedly, that they might be making light of Lydia's previous mental state.

"Look at Lydia now. She's a picture of health."

"She's a banshee."

"Are you afraid I might be something else?" Stiles asks seriously. "Something bad? Because whatever the darkness is, it's not going to be nice is it?"

"No," Scott says, shaking his head hard, squeezing his elbow. "I'm just worried about you. When was the last time you slept?"

Stiles doesn't answer, knowing full-well it was nearly three nights ago, after he'd dreamt about fire.

"Your dad called my mom. He was asking about sleeping pills," Scott continues worriedly. "They're not for him, are they?"

"I'm okay, Scott…" Stiles says, looking away and avoiding the concerned look in his friend's eyes. "I just need a good night's sleep."

Scott looks like he's going to object to Stiles nonchalant dismissal but their teacher is coughing and eyeing Stiles coolly across the room.

Harris might be dead and gone but his dislike of Stiles still, it seems, remained strong. The new, replacement teacher, had taken an instant dislike to him. Unlike Harris, who had a somewhat rational if not unfair reason, Crabtree (or Crabby as Stiles had started calling him) had no apparent reason. Stiles wonders, a little amusedly and not beyond feasibility, if Harris had left notes on him.

Stiles ignores everyone, including Crabby, and pulls his notebook free ready to start the class.

* * *

They're nearly three quarters of the way through the class when Scott notices a stutter to Stiles heartbeat.

Scott leans forward until he can see the side of Stiles face. His eyes are blinking sluggishly open and closed. Every time they open Scott catches the way they stare glassily ahead. The pen, which he'd previously been writing with, was now being squeezed tightly between clasped fingers, the creak of plastic and rustling paper loud against Scott's ears.

Scott looks down, expecting to see the familiar words of _wake up_ across the page, but instead all that's there is the equations and numbers and copious amount of writing that Stiles had copied down from the chalk-board. Somewhere, though, Stiles had stopped writing and the words and numbers had disappeared into a wonky line as Stiles dragged the pen across the paper. And he didn't stop, tight trembling hand dragging it right and then left until the rest of the paper was nothing but a mixture of diagonal lines.

"Stiles?" Scott asks quietly.

Stiles doesn't respond, hand drifting across the paper. Another stutter to his heart-beat. A small hitch to his breath.

"Stiles?" Scott whispers again, slowly planting his hand hesitantly over Stiles and the pen.

As soon as Scott makes contact with him Stiles body becomes fluid and he slides heavily off the stool until he's a heap on the floor.

"Stiles!" Scott yells in alarm, dropping to his knees beside him, trying to reach for him, only for Stiles to writhe on the floor and letting out a scream that's too loud and alarming. Scott has to bite down on his lip and bring his alpha into play to stop from wolfing out.

Lydia appears, shoving gawkers and uncomfortable gigglers out of her way, Aidan, Ethan and Danny quickly following.

"What happened?" she gasps.

"I don't know… I don't…" Scott shakes his head, unsure how he can explain what has been happening to the three of them, especially Stiles, but he knows his touch is not calming him.

Lydia doesn't hesitate and plants her small perfectly manicured hand across Stiles forehead. "It's okay, Stiles. You're okay."

The effect is immediate. Stiles eyes fly open and he jumps, trying to fight his way free from where Lydia is trying to push him back down. Scott instantly tastes smokiness against his lips, the distinctive smell of charcoal and burnt skin in the air.

"I'm awake," Stiles chants quietly on the floor, heaving heavy breaths out between the words.

"And that is what you get for falling asleep," Crabtree sneers at them. "Stilinski get off the floor before I feel inclined to give you a detention. And I do not want to have a reason to see your face any more than I need to."

"He wasn't asleep," Scott snaps at him, although in hindsight it was probably not the best thing to say considering he was making it obvious that Stiles was now freaking out in the middle of the day while he was fully awake.

"I'm sick?" Stiles offers weakly, allowing Danny and Lydia to assist him to his feet.

"He _is_ burning up," Lydia says. And Scott can see from where he's stooped that there's a slight sheen of perspiration across his forehead.

"Go to the nurse's office…" Crabtree dismisses him and waves at the door.

Scott tries to follow but Crabtree side-eyes him and shakes his head.

"It's fine," Stiles tells him. "I'll see you later."

"Answer your phone," Scott growls at him knowing full well he won't. He also, most probably, won't go the nurse's office either.

* * *

Stiles doesn't go the nurse's office. In fact he skips the remainder of school altogether.

He ends up walking aimlessly and although he's sure he doesn't have another waking dream or lose any time, before he knows it it's mid-afternoon and he has no idea how time moved on.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, rousing him from his musings, and he digs it out noticing that not only is there an un-read text from Scott but that his dad is calling.

"Hey," he greets his dad.

"Hey, you…" his dad greets back. Stiles instantly can hear the worried tones despite the casual words. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"The school called when they realised you left. They told me what happened earlier."

"I should have called you. Sorry."

"Where've you been? That was hours ago, kid."

"Just walking. Clearing my head."

"You want me to come and get you?"

"No. It's fine dad."

"Are you sure?" his dad asks, sounding determined and worried. "We can go to Deaton's."

"I don't need to do that," Stiles sighs and then takes a breath. "Derek's back. I'm supposed to go there after school. Everyone's going."

"He's back? Since when?"

"Yesterday? Don't be mad. I was the last to find out, apparently, if that makes you feel better."

"It doesn't," his dad grouses. "You need a ride there?"

"No," Stiles rolls his eyes. "Do I need to revoke the dad-cab ride privileges?"

"I'm just worried about you."

"Well don't be… look I'm going to go and buy some snacks and then head over there. By that time the others should be getting there."

"If this is official pack-meeting stuff then I should be there," his dad objects.

"I don't even know what it is," Stiles reminds him, although from what Scott had said earlier, he was pretty sure that he was on the list of topics. "For all I know it could just be a little reunion. Having the Sheriff there kind of ruins the party mood."

"Hmm," his dad muses over the phone. "If it is anything werewolf-related you'll let me know. No more bullshitting me."

"Language father," Stiles laughs and then finds himself nodding. "And yes daddy dearest, I'll let you know."

They say their goodbyes and Stiles disconnects only to slide Scott's message back on screen.

_Derek's. Be there. _

* * *

"We didn't have to come back."

"I know."

"I'm serious."

"I know."

"So why did we?"

"Don't you mean why did you come back?"

"Derek!"

"Cora!"

"God, you're so annoying," Cora says, slurping noisily at a slushie. "It's like having Stilinski in the car with us."

"I think you missed him."

"What? No way," Cora says, turning a disgusted look towards him. "He's got this face that I just want to…. punch, I guess."

Derek snorts and helps himself to the fries between them.

They're in the Camaro, eating a late lunch, before they head back to the loft for the meeting that Scott instructed they must have. He wasn't really that bothered, but Scott insisted on it, and Derek thought it would probably be a good way of getting Stiles there, considering he'd heard multiple accounts from various people over the last twenty-four hours on how Stiles had been avoiding the others.

He'd been surprised by Scott's call and even more surprised by the panic in the new alpha's voice.

"_Something's coming, Derek. It could even be here right now. I don't know what it is. And Stiles… he's a fucking mess. There's something wrong with him. _

He'd called Deaton later, who confirmed Scott's concern, but couldn't enlighten him any further.

"_Scott's right. There is something." _

"_The darkness?" _

"_You know about this?" _

"_My mother spoke about it." _

"_Stiles refuses to come and see me despite there being an open invitation to him. From what I hear he's not doing as well as the others. I'm afraid of what the consequences might be." _

Cora snatches the fries out of his grasp.

"I heard you on the phone. Are you worried about Stiles?"

Derek shrugs and plucks another fry away.

"Should we?" Cora asks again.

"We?"

"I came back didn't I?"

"You're worried," Derek deflects, allowing Cora to pull the remainder of the fries completely out of his reach, suddenly spotting a familiar figure in the distance

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am…" Cora starts and then rolls to a stop when she too spots the figure as it changes direction and heads across the parking lot towards the store they're parked in front of. "Is that Stiles?"

It is Stiles, only his face looks gaunter and his skin paler than when he'd last seen him, but there was a distinctive thump of a heart-beat, one that he was familiar with. His scent followed a few seconds later, slightly overpowered by the smell of burnt charcoal and smokiness. The added scent is more than a little overwhelming and leaves him frowning in confusion.

By the look on Cora's face she'd also picked up on it.

There's a sudden change in Stiles heart-beat. A stutter and a hitch. And then Stiles is lurching away, hands shooting out blindly until he braces himself against the side of the store and slides ungracefully to the dirty floor beneath him.

"Stiles!" Derek yells, flinging the Camaro door open and sprinting over to the younger boy, Cora hot on his heels.

By now Stiles is rocking on the floor and clutching his head.

"Stiles?" Cora asks, reaching Stiles seconds after Derek does. She tries to grab at his arm but Stiles actually shrieks at the touch and wrenches his entire body away.

"Don't," Stiles pants, eyes closed, head still in his hands. "It's okay, Stiles. You're awake."

Derek and Cora exchange worried glances.

He waves Cora off when she tries to touch him. The smell of burnt skin wafting over them every now and then.

"Stiles?" Derek asks instead.

"Derek?" Stiles says a little breathlessly. The rocking stops. The hands move away from his head.

Derek ventures a hand of his own to Stiles shoulder, expecting a violent reaction again but instead of flinching away, Stiles vomits all over the gum-covered floor.

"Whoa," Derek says, catching Stiles as he starts to pitch forward. "Okay."

Stiles vomits, violently, a further three times until it finally stops and there's few disgruntled noises from passers-by. Stiles seemingly doesn't care or he's completely oblivious and Cora ends up standing over them glaring at anyone who dares even to glance in their direction.

"I think we should get you to the hospital," Derek says when he's positive there's nothing left to come out.

"No," Stiles grunts at him, unabashedly leaning into Derek's side. "Just a migraine."

"That was _not_ a migraine."

"Trust me," Stiles mutters tiredly into his side. "It could have been much worse."

By his tone and the lingering strange smell over their clothes Derek has to reluctantly agree.

"Don't stare," Stiles mutters up at Cora. "It's rude. Help me up and give me a ride to yours."

"Who died and made you queen?" Cora mutters at him, folding her arms across her chest.

"Me?" Stiles asks with a lopsided grin.

"Not funny, Stiles…" Cora frowns, kicking his foot gently.

"Haven't you heard about not kicking a man when he's down?" he asks as Derek easily tugs him to his feet. Stiles sways with it but allows Derek to drag him, by the hoodie no less, towards the car. There's only so much gentle tactile-ness he can handle before he has to give an equal ratio of roughness.

Despite the frown still firmly on Cora's face she manages a quirk to her lips.

"No."

"Was that a smile?" Stiles asks, even as Derek is shoving him into the cramped back-seat. He sticks his head back out of the door, preventing Derek from snapping the seat back into place, and Derek can see the mask fall into place. A curtain that wasn't there before. "Shit on a stick! Did Cora fucking Hale just smile?"

"Shut up, Stiles…" Cora groans at him, pushing him a little less roughly back into the seat and slamming the door in his face.

"See Derek…" Stiles huffs, voice muffled but still clearly heard from behind the closed door. "That's how you do it."

Cora catches his eyes before he has a chance to move around to the driver's side.

"What the hell was that?" she asks quietly, worrying her lips.

Derek shakes his head because he hasn't a clue.

Not one single idea and it freaks him out. Because Stiles? Stiles looks like death. And he smells so much worse.

_tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

Stiles is quiet.

_Too quiet._

Derek watches him, every now and then, in the rear view mirror. Stiles rests his head against the window of the Camaro seemingly ignoring the two occupants in the front. It's disconcerting because Stiles is _too _still. For as long as Derek has known him Stiles had always been an excitable bundle of energy, even in his distress. Flailing limbs and spastic movements.

"What, Sourwolf?" Stiles asks when their eyes catch in the mirror.

Derek averts his eyes instead of answering.

They're nearly halfway back to the loft when they realise they hadn't actually got any supplies to take back with them so they end up stopping at a small convenience store. He leaves Stiles and Cora in the car, hearing Stiles shout 'chips and dips…' after him.

When he returns he finds them bickering quietly, Stiles appearing disinterested, and brightening in relief when he opens the driver's side door. He dumps the few paper bags he has in Cora's lap and flings a small orange pack into the back.

"What's that for?" Stiles asks, picking the pack of Reece's up suspiciously.

"I thought you could do with them," Derek tells him flatly.

"Oh… that's… nice of you?" Stiles says, clearly confused and even more suspicious.

Cora's looking at him with a frown.

"You get Stilinski chocolate? What about me?"

"You don't look like you're about to pass out from low blood sugar," he tells her with a shrug.

"Isn't chocolate poisonous to…?" he hears Stiles muster up some of his usual obnoxious tone.

"If you're about to refer to me as a dog…" Cora warns him, glaring over her shoulder. "Are you fond of your face?"

"More attached?" Stiles says back. Derek tries to hide the smirk as he watches Stiles physically withdraw back into his seat. "Like physically attached. I'd like to keep it that way."

"Then keep your cake-hole shut," Cora smiles sweetly at him.

Stiles offers her a weak thumbs up and Derek doesn't miss the fact that Stiles pushes the pack of Reece's into his pocket instead of ripping it open.

By the time they get back to the loft there's already a car and a bike outside the building indicating that the others had already arrived.

Derek actually feels a little nervous. He might have been an alpha and had betas but this is the first 'pack' meeting they've actually had. And it took Scott McCall to initiate it. Scott, who's only been an alpha for a few months, who's already doing a better job at leading a pack then he ever did.

Stiles scrambles out as soon as Derek slides out and disappears through the door without a glance back.

"Get the bags," Derek calls to Cora over his shoulder, following Stiles in.

"What am I? Your personal slave?" he hears Cora complain loudly.

When he gets to his floor he realises the door is open and he wonders which one of the little shits has a key to the loft.

The rooms occupants all stop their chatter when Derek slides in after Stiles, Scott's eyes widening when he realises they have arrived together, although Stiles appears completely oblivious and proceeds to make a beeline to the couch, staring at it greedily as though he could will Isaac's prone form off it from where he's lying.

Isaac cocks an eyebrow up at Stiles, smirking. "Not a chance."

"Isaac," Derek says firmly and even though he might not be an alpha anymore Isaac still tenses. "Go help Cora bring in the groceries."

"She's a werewolf," Isaac says, disgruntled. "I think she can manage."

"Go help her," Scott repeats and Isaac scowls before heaving himself off the couch.

Stiles immediately sinks into the heavy folds of the furniture as soon as it's vacated, completely unaware of the shooting gesture Scott's head is making towards the kitchen.

"Let's go help them," Allison says to Lydia, stilling her from filing her nail down the bone.

"What? Why?" Lydia says affronted, pulled out of her reverie, but then catches the non-verbal communication going on between the new and old alpha. "Oh, yeah, sure…"

As soon as the room is cleared Derek follows Scott to the kitchen in the far corner.

"What happened?" Scott asks worriedly as soon as they're out of ear-shot. "Why is he with you guys? He was supposed to go the nurse's office at school but he ended up skipping the rest of the day. Why the hell didn't you call?"

"Whoa," Derek instantly says, eyebrows rising. "Calm down. We found him outside the store we were at. He was having some weird kind of panic attack. I don't know what's wrong but he ended up vomiting and he smells strange, like…"

"Burnt corpses?" Scott answers instead.

Derek nods quietly.

"What happened at school?" he asks.

"He just completely zoned out," Scott says, shrugging. "One minute he was writing equations out, the next he was drawling line after line across the page until I touched him and then he started freaking out, screaming and smelling like that," Scott continues with a wave of the hand.

They're interrupted by Cora banging the door loudly and shouting "We're coming in." She strides in with the only two bags they had, the other three sheepishly trailing in after her, and dumps them into his arms, "I did the hauling, you can do the unpacking."

She doesn't wait for a response and heads over the couch where Stiles has managed to take up most of the space with his long frame.

"Move it Stilinski," she mutters without bite. "My couch, my rules."

"Actually, it's your brothers," Stiles reminds her tiredly, squinting. He shuffles over all the same until he's sat at the opposite end, legs outstretched in front of him. In comparison, Cora snakes her body in, tucking her knees under her.

Derek watches Stiles, as Scott helps to put the few items of shopping away, legs outstretched in front of him, and despite the implication of his body being lax, he can tell it's actually the opposite.

He remains too still. His fingers too tense. His face twitches occasionally. And then there was the way his heart beat would catch and stutter.

It's obvious that there's something wrong, even if his smell wasn't, and that could be put, typically, down to PTSD.

He felt bad for the kid, not just for what he's been through, but the fact that that they were ambushing him. Derek wasn't entirely sure if this was the best way to approach the situation – if he had his way he'd probably take Stiles aside, away from all distractions, get him to focus on the him and now, and with perseverance he would hope Stiles would listen and maybe even talk. According to Scott though, a much needed _'direct intervention'_ was needed and he was _'just short of hitting him around the head with the hard facts'_. So that was that.

Derek noisily dumps two bowls of Doritos and dip in front of him.

Stiles cracks his eyes open and grins lazily.

"Good boy," he cracks, although makes no effort to take any.

"Shall we get this started?" Derek asks Scott, feeling his patience thin.

"Thank god," Stiles mutters, forcing himself to sit upright. He slaps his face and opens his mouth wide open a few times as though trying to shake himself awake. "Some of us have lives to get on with."

There's a murmur of agreement. Lydia perches herself on the end of the couch, while Isaac and Allison take the floor. Derek grabs a chair for himself and offers one to Scott. Scott shakes his head and leans against the wall, as though unsure of himself.

_Nerves_. It was his first pack meeting, after all.

Derek lets Scott take the lead. He might be a little weirded out by it. Scott, who for all purposes, is still only a child himself. But there's still a hierarchy to respect and when it comes down to it, Derek isn't an alpha anymore.

Scott starts off with the basics, seemingly aware that Stiles would probably bolt if he realises this was all about him, like what do with the twins who were still hanging around like a pair of lost puppets, the fact that Deucalion was still out there, and Jennifer's body was still missing.

They were still throwing ideas back and forth (Stiles and Isaac bickering before Stiles had un-characteristically muttered _'you still milking that?' _when Isaac reminded him he'd been locked in a freezer for a big chunk of his child-hood as a response to be being accused of not being helpful) and no sign of getting any nearer to discussing Stiles when Derek realises how tired the younger boy was. He's exhausted and obviously losing out to sleep.

After a few false starts and eye flickering Stiles truly sacks out, body going limp, fingers unwinding from their endless fidgeting, cuffs frayed from where he'd been playing with several loose threads.

Scott eventually calls time on their previous discussion when he realises most of the group are bickering quietly between themselves.

"Okay, how about a change of topic?"

"Not now," Derek says nodding to towards Stiles.

"Oh," Scott says disappointed and shakes his head. "I don't want to wake him. He's not been sleeping."

Stiles seems completely unaware of the scrutiny and sinks further into the couch, head listing sideways, until he completely crumples into Cora's side.

"Oh, okay…" Cora mutters. "This is completely invading my personal space, Stilinski."

She tries to gently touch his arm but he flinches violently as soon as she makes contact.

"No, no…"

"Stiles?" Scott starts worriedly, already moving away from the wall.

"Wait…" Derek snaps, catching Scott's arm. "Look."

They do. It kind of freezes everyone to the spot. There's the tell-tale signs of smoke drifting from the folds of his navy blue plaid shirt.

* * *

_He's not a little boy now, but he still walks across the floor bare-footed._

_Outside the room the name on the door is no longer out of focus but the letters are jumbled and he can't figure it out._

_Cojab_

_There is smoke billowing up the stairs and he stumbles down them. He recognises the place but he's never been there before. There's a few trinkets on the way. Scattered framed photos, glass broken, that he vaguely recognises too._

_By the time he's down at the basement there's loud crying. Begging. Someone is pleading._

_A heavy hand settles across the back of his shoulders. Bigger than it should feel._

_When he turns there's no one there except a small boy, crying, asking for his mother. Behind him there's a woman. Blonde hair. Bilious laugh. Stiles recognises her too. _

"_What do we have here?" she asks in a soft voice. She strokes the boy's face. "You look like your brother."_

_The boy looks confused, tilts his head and stares at her lips._

"_Put him in with the others," she finally says, shoving him forward. Stiles automatically takes a step back as a man steps in front of him, catching the stumbling boy. Stiles glances behind him, sees the now open basement door and the struggling bodies. His eyes slowly lower to the floor. Mountain ash. His eyes catch hold of an older woman, brunette, staring at him. The stare follows him as he drops to his knees and tries to break the seal, but no matter how many times he tries, it just re-seals itself. He turns to look at her, shaking his head vigorously as frustrated tears prevail. _

_Her expression doesn't change at all._

_It's only now that he realises she's silently signing the same gestures as what he'd seen Finstock and the rest of the class doing weeks earlier_

_He stands abruptly, turning, to find the other, blonde, woman standing right behind him. She's so close that he can see into the deep lacerations on her neck, ones that hadn't been there before, and despite the need to gag, he has an overwhelming urge to reach into her throat and squeeze with all his might. _

_Kate. Kate Argent._

_He'd never seen her after Peter had ripped her throat out. Scott hadn't let him. And then his dad had made sure as hell he hadn't._

_Instead he takes a staggering step backwards as she lurches forward and then he's inside the basement, surrounded by a deep veil of despair, and he forces his voice out. His own against the torrent of the room._

"_No, don't, please…" and soon his voice is joined by others, synchronising, until it's a loud echo reverberating against his ear drums. _

_There's more gasoline. _

_A flick of a lighter_

_and-_

* * *

"Oh my god," Cora exclaims loudly, panic settling into her voice. She reaches out to touch him again. "Wake up, Stiles…"

Stiles flinches away violently from her touch on his arm, flinging himself back towards the other end of the couch with a shriek, shoulder hitting the arm rest painfully.

Lydia yelps in surprise and jumps away from the sofa quickly. Her entire body is tense and her eyes wild.

"What's going on?" she demands, breathing heavily.

"Lydia?" Scott asks uncertainly, coming to a standstill beside the coffee table and hesitating between Stiles and the red-head. "What wrong? What do you feel?"

"I don't know. Something," she admits, shaking her head. "Something doesn't feel right."

"Like what?"

"I _don't_ know," she insists and scrunches her face up tight, eyes squeezing shut. "I think I can hear voices. There's too many of them… I don't know what's being said," she opens her eyes, damp, but not crying. "Fear. I feel fear. Lots of it."

Stiles moans from where he's folded into himself, gasping into a choked sob and muttering "No, don't, please…" A single tear slides down the side of his face from his closed eyes.

"Great," Cora mutters angrily, "While you figure that out I'm going to wake him up. Stiles?" She asks in hesitation.

"No, Cora, wait…" Derek says, realising that every touch Cora has made since Stiles fell asleep has resulted in a more violent reaction than before, but it's too late. Her hand is already on his knee, gently shaking him.

The result is almost instantaneous. Stiles eyes snap open and he screams, louder than Derek has ever heard him scream before, jack-knifing off the couch.

* * *

_He's no longer in the basement._

_But there's still screaming and crying._

_Someone's banging on the door, tearing skin, breaking nails… no, claws, screaming and sobbing hysterically._

_Through the screaming there's a voice._

"_Run, baby. Run and don't look back. Never look back."_

_The message isn't for him, but the signing that she's doing is._

* * *

Stiles blindly hits the table, sending the two bowls careening to the floor, shattering on impact. Stiles follows it, flying over it as knees strike it painfully and he crumples over. The momentum leaves him landing on the broken shards but the shock of it doesn't help shake him out of whatever he's seeing. He continues to scream, dragging himself further across the sharp fragments, until Derek shakes himself into action.

"Whoa, hey…" he grunts as he grabs hold of Stiles with both arms. "Stop."

Stiles screams further, wails deep, as he tries to fling himself away again.

"Stiles!" Derek barks, grunts again as he finds an elbow firmly in his sternum. He has to wrap both arms, followed by his legs, to prevent Stiles from hurting himself further, rolling their bodies away from the chip and dip massacre. "You're awake, you're okay. You're awake and you're at my loft."

There's sweat pouring off him, but his face is an alabaster white, and his clammy to touch. Stiles digs his hands into Derek's exposed arms, scratching his short nails against his skin, and chokes on more sobs, gasping for breath. "Don't let them in, don't let them in, don't let them…"

"Stiles?" Scott asks timidly. It should be laughable really, that a true alpha could sound so scared, but it's not. Derek glances at the occupants of the room and sees the same look on all of their faces, even Cora's. The look of the pure horror. By the way the three other werewolves were all heavily breathing, they too could smell the strong odorous fear and despair rolling of Stiles shaking frame.

Stiles resistance is subsiding, the dragging of nails down his skin has stopped, and he now has one hand wound around Derek's arm, the other has found its way to his shirt, clasping and twisting the material tightly. He's still gasping for breath, body shuddering. Derek can smell the salty tears on him.

"It's okay," Derek reassures him. "You're here. You're safe."

"Am I?" Stiles asks. Just the effort of the words leaves him spluttering and he tries to heave in a deep breath.

"Take it easy," Derek informs him quietly, releasing an arm so he can touch his back slightly. Stiles sags but doesn't fall any further, grabbing hold of Derek to balance him further. It should be weird and uncomfortable, being so close and tactile, but strangely it's not. He rubs Stiles back between his shoulder blades reassuringly. "Nice slow breaths, Stiles…" he encourages him.

He hears the hiss of a breath as it's sucked in and feels the vibrations as he slowly forces them out. It's an effort for him, Derek can tell, but at least he's trying.

Despite the calming of his breathing there's still an occasional stutter and shudder and he feels Stiles release his earlier hold to reach up and wipe his eyes as a fresh wave of tears make their escape.

"Can you guys give me a moment?" Stiles voice cracks loudly in the otherwise quiet room, despite hardly having much of a voice left.

Allison nods straight away and drags a protesting Lydia with her. Isaac wastes no time in bolting and Cora reluctantly follows, throwing a worried glance back at the shaking form huddled on the floor.

Derek doesn't move from where he's still sat and Stiles doesn't object so he takes it as invite to stay. As soon as the room empties, apart from Scott who insists on staying, Stiles curls away from Derek and folds into a foetal position.

Scott craws forward on his knees, not saying anything, and plants his hand over Stiles knee.

Stiles doesn't complain but he does start openly crying and covers his face, shielding it from them, and Derek doesn't know how to help any further except to offer a warm hand again, settling it firmly against his back and hoping it offered what little comfort he could give.

_tbc _


End file.
